![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
Title: Gunsmoke Signals
Author: ShadowDemon-Gengar
Challenge:![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/community.gif)
30_distractions
Theme: Bitter Taste
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Pairing: Hiruma/Mamori
Genres: Romance/Drama/Humor
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I own nothing Eyeshield 21
Warnings: Profanity
---
It was like a bitter taste on her tongue, watching the powerfully intelligent, psychotically optimistic, and composed Hiruma rip the locker room a part. It was bitter, causing hot tears to well up in her eyes; it was bitter, causing her hand to tremble as she brought it to her mouth.
They had just lost to the Oujou White Knights . . . by a single point.
The ever-sought-for dream of playing in Christmas Bowl was shattered.
Hiruma was shattered.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Each harsh, shouted curse was accented with a banging kick or punch against a locker door.
He was like a wild animal, attacking anything in his path as he stalked around the enclosed room, going around and around, passing her for the two-dozenth, the scent of rain and sweat and mud and grass brushing under her nose as the air was violently shoved around.
She could feel her heart breaking for him, aware that she couldn't possibly comprehend the ripping disappointment and utter rage he was expressing.
But she could sense something else in the way he moved; could hear it in his voice.
He hated himself. He didn't blame anyone but himself for their defeat. He knew they had done their best, pushing themselves to their physical and mental limitations. But it hadn't been enough. And he blamed himself.
He saw himself as a failure; a failure to his friends, his team, his dream; a failure as a leader, as a captain, as a quarterback. He loathed himself.
And she couldn't stand it.
He was a hero. They were all heroes. They were a team that had been underestimated time and time again because of the lack of experienced players and game time. Their victories were always dismissed as luck and miracles. But they proved everyone wrong in the end; proved to the world that it took more than just training and discipline to win – it took heart and spirit and determination and willpower. It took the friendship and support of everyone else on the team. It took the need to believe that nothing was ever over until it was truly over.
Hot tears threatened to spill over and she fought against the scalding, thick lump in her throat; fought against the urge to vocally sob her misery at seeing him like this.
No one else was beating themselves up so horribly like he was.
It wasn't until she found herself standing right next to him that she realized she had moved. She listened to and watched him vent the ugly, dark emotions on the victimized lockers in front of him, his fists slamming over and over against the gray steel, leaving deep dents in the wake of his vicious onslaught.
It was only when she noticed the cuts, gaping and bleeding, on his knuckles that she knew he finally needed to stop.
She wordlessly brought a small hand up and rested it on his naked bicep, the muscles beneath the warm skin hard and toned from the demands required to be a quarterback. For a moment, he didn't seem to realize she had touched him, continuing to spit vulgarities and pound away on the yielding locker doors.
But it didn't discourage her. He needed her; she knew he did. He needed her need to soothe the hurt. Even though everything else screamed 'Danger! Stay away!', she knew that if she walked away now – if she left him to himself like his violent body language ordered her to – it would only make things worse . . .
She quietly ducked under his arm and squeezed herself in between his towering body, broadened by bulk of his protective gear, and the pulverized locker doors, before she slid her arms around his tapered waist, bringing her smaller, softer body flush against his, not caring that he was wet and muddy from the earlier storm. She rested her cheek on his heaving chest.
His heart was pounding out an angry, adrenaline-induced rhythm and she tightened her arms around him, squeezing her eyes shut against the hot sting of her tears, desperately fighting the urge to let them fall. Someone had to be strong here, and it wasn't going to be Hiruma.
There was a last, ringing clang of flesh meeting metal with ruthless force . . . and then all was quiet, the harsh, ragged breathing above her the only sound left in the dreary, dim locker room.
She glanced up, swallowing hard against the burning lump in her throat, when she felt his muscles drain themselves of the back-breaking tension and rigidity, and felt him grow heavier in her arms when he leaned his defeated weight into her.
Above her, he had his arms folded and braced against the deeply dented lockers, half his face buried against them. All she could see in the play of shadows and dim light was the grim frown turning down his lips.
It was over . . .
---
[link] - Distraction VIII: Running Water
[link] - Distraction VII: Hug; Tackle; Glomp
[link] - Distraction VI: Kiss
[link] - Distraction XXV: Out of Place
[link] - Distraction I: On the Phone
Author: ShadowDemon-Gengar
Challenge:
30_distractionsTheme: Bitter Taste
Fandom: Eyeshield 21
Pairing: Hiruma/Mamori
Genres: Romance/Drama/Humor
Rating: T
Disclaimer: I own nothing Eyeshield 21
Warnings: Profanity
---
It was like a bitter taste on her tongue, watching the powerfully intelligent, psychotically optimistic, and composed Hiruma rip the locker room a part. It was bitter, causing hot tears to well up in her eyes; it was bitter, causing her hand to tremble as she brought it to her mouth.
They had just lost to the Oujou White Knights . . . by a single point.
The ever-sought-for dream of playing in Christmas Bowl was shattered.
Hiruma was shattered.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" Each harsh, shouted curse was accented with a banging kick or punch against a locker door.
He was like a wild animal, attacking anything in his path as he stalked around the enclosed room, going around and around, passing her for the two-dozenth, the scent of rain and sweat and mud and grass brushing under her nose as the air was violently shoved around.
She could feel her heart breaking for him, aware that she couldn't possibly comprehend the ripping disappointment and utter rage he was expressing.
But she could sense something else in the way he moved; could hear it in his voice.
He hated himself. He didn't blame anyone but himself for their defeat. He knew they had done their best, pushing themselves to their physical and mental limitations. But it hadn't been enough. And he blamed himself.
He saw himself as a failure; a failure to his friends, his team, his dream; a failure as a leader, as a captain, as a quarterback. He loathed himself.
And she couldn't stand it.
He was a hero. They were all heroes. They were a team that had been underestimated time and time again because of the lack of experienced players and game time. Their victories were always dismissed as luck and miracles. But they proved everyone wrong in the end; proved to the world that it took more than just training and discipline to win – it took heart and spirit and determination and willpower. It took the friendship and support of everyone else on the team. It took the need to believe that nothing was ever over until it was truly over.
Hot tears threatened to spill over and she fought against the scalding, thick lump in her throat; fought against the urge to vocally sob her misery at seeing him like this.
No one else was beating themselves up so horribly like he was.
It wasn't until she found herself standing right next to him that she realized she had moved. She listened to and watched him vent the ugly, dark emotions on the victimized lockers in front of him, his fists slamming over and over against the gray steel, leaving deep dents in the wake of his vicious onslaught.
It was only when she noticed the cuts, gaping and bleeding, on his knuckles that she knew he finally needed to stop.
She wordlessly brought a small hand up and rested it on his naked bicep, the muscles beneath the warm skin hard and toned from the demands required to be a quarterback. For a moment, he didn't seem to realize she had touched him, continuing to spit vulgarities and pound away on the yielding locker doors.
But it didn't discourage her. He needed her; she knew he did. He needed her need to soothe the hurt. Even though everything else screamed 'Danger! Stay away!', she knew that if she walked away now – if she left him to himself like his violent body language ordered her to – it would only make things worse . . .
She quietly ducked under his arm and squeezed herself in between his towering body, broadened by bulk of his protective gear, and the pulverized locker doors, before she slid her arms around his tapered waist, bringing her smaller, softer body flush against his, not caring that he was wet and muddy from the earlier storm. She rested her cheek on his heaving chest.
His heart was pounding out an angry, adrenaline-induced rhythm and she tightened her arms around him, squeezing her eyes shut against the hot sting of her tears, desperately fighting the urge to let them fall. Someone had to be strong here, and it wasn't going to be Hiruma.
There was a last, ringing clang of flesh meeting metal with ruthless force . . . and then all was quiet, the harsh, ragged breathing above her the only sound left in the dreary, dim locker room.
She glanced up, swallowing hard against the burning lump in her throat, when she felt his muscles drain themselves of the back-breaking tension and rigidity, and felt him grow heavier in her arms when he leaned his defeated weight into her.
Above her, he had his arms folded and braced against the deeply dented lockers, half his face buried against them. All she could see in the play of shadows and dim light was the grim frown turning down his lips.
It was over . . .
---
[link] - Distraction VIII: Running Water
[link] - Distraction VII: Hug; Tackle; Glomp
[link] - Distraction VI: Kiss
[link] - Distraction XXV: Out of Place
[link] - Distraction I: On the Phone
Music: "Something In Your Mouth" - Nickelback
6 Songs | Access Music Library